


shoelaces and departures

by deusreks



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Adults, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Magic, Fluff, M/M, Matsuhana is a background ship and contains subtle pining, Mild Sexual Content, Two Shot, soft angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6125261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deusreks/pseuds/deusreks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Four truths about Oikawa Tooru:</b>
</p><p> </p><p>1) He smiles like everything is his to conquer (Hajime worries that, one day, he will find that this world is too small for him)<br/>2) He always comes home (Hajime worries that, one day, he won’t come home)<br/>3) He wears his boots unlaced (Hajime worries that, one day, he will trip over his own feet and fall)<br/>4) He loves milk, real beds and Hajime (Hajime worries that, one day, he won’t)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Side A: Iwaizumi Hajime

**Author's Note:**

> Usage of canon in this fic is subtle and arbitrary at times. Oikawa isn't entirely human and none of their dreams came true the way they wanted them to.

**Early May**

Iwaizumi Hajime descends a narrow set of stairs and enters his café with his left hand caressing his clean-shaven chin and his right hand scratching his side, where a tag is scraping his skin. He keeps forgetting to cut the damn thing off even though he’s bought this shirt three months ago.

The early morning sun knocks on wall-length windows but never quite enters before noon. That’s why his long-time friend and employee, Matsukawa Issei, is working behind the counter while fickle shadows dance across his stubbly face. His sharp eyes are cast downwards, over a cup of coffee, and their intense gaze tell Hajime that Matsukawa’s sour mood isn’t merely a product of a night spent gaming.

“You _do_ know you don’t have to be here until eight thirty?” Hajime asks as he walks over to the front doors and swaps the sign from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’. He avoids walking into charged space around Matsukawa until he’s mellowed him down.

Matsukawa’s response comes in a heartbeat, “Yes.”  

“That’s a bad habit you got yourself there,” Hajime notes. His reply causes Matsukawa’s lip to curl which only serves to prove that Matsukawa knows what Hajime’s accusing him of but doesn’t plan to do anything about it. Hajime reckons it’s his own fault for giving him the key to his establishment.

“Oikawa’s coming home today?” Matsukawa inquires once he’s set down a prepared cup of café au lait.

Hajime allows Matsukawa to change the topic. “How do you know?”

“You always shave before he does,” Matsukawa offers, a lazy grin smearing his lips. “Plus, you have that dreamy look in your eyes that’s just adora—“

“Okay, quit it.” Hajime smacks Matsukawa’s behind with a clean mop and the other barely flinches.

Five minutes later, Hajime isn’t surprised that their first customer is rosy-cheeked, disheveled-looking Hanamaki Takahiro with a pink-brown messenger bag to match the color of his hair. Hanamaki drops his head and rests his palms on his knees until he catches his breath. He is notorious for being chased by a phantom dog (dubbed as such because nobody’s actually seen the dog) almost every morning on his way to the café before classes.

Hanamaki wipes his forehead on the black sleeve of his ORAL CIGARETTES t-shirt and takes a look at Hajime. His expression is stone-cold when he asks: “Oikawa’s coming home today?”

“ _Seriously_?!” Hajime groans.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa exchange glances that convey more than words ever could; more than Hajime could decipher even if he had a key.

Hanamaki offers, “It’s the stars; your eyes are full of them.”

“ _Out_ , now.” Hajime points to the doors with the mop.

“That is no way to treat a customer.” Hanamaki nudges him with his elbow as he walks past him to where his café au lait awaits. He leaves money on the counter and takes a small, perfunctory sip.

“I got a new fighting game,” he says. His eyes, pupils blown wide from adrenaline rush, are glued to Matsukawa but Matsukawa isn’t fazed. Not even when Hanamaki eases his elbows on the counter and rests his chin on the knuckles of his intertwined fingers.

Matsukawa scratches his chin, indifferent. “Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“I am. Don’t I deserve a break?”

“I’ll swing by in the evening.”

“Cool.”

Hajime tunes them out and busies himself with the next customer that walks in.

It’s a peculiar thing, knowing that Oikawa Tooru is coming back home to him. If asked, Hajime doesn’t use the verb ‘know’, but rather, ‘feel’. He _feels_ that Tooru is on his way. He feels it the moment he opens a window and the wind shifts its course as if to whisper farewells to lonely nights in his ear. He feels it as faint static prickling his skin, and he welcomes it like he welcomes air in his lungs. Sometimes it’s two weeks since Tooru’s left, and sometimes it’s a month, but he always comes wandering right back through those doors as if he’s never truly left. Because parts of Tooru are everywhere; his hair in warm browns of the walls; his eyes in sharp, dark corners guarding private booths; his pink mouth on rims of coffee cups; his smell in tangles of Hajime’s sheets upstairs.

When Tooru returns that morning, it’s the same as every other time. He walks in; his coat pristine yet his brown boots old and worn, left shoelace ever untied, the sunshine following him inside like a loyal minion. Hands in his pockets, and a backpack slung casually over his thin shoulder as if it weighs nothing, his smile owns the entire room. He approaches the counter and taps the polished wood.

“I would like to order one express room. With the boss, if possible.”

Hajime crosses his arms and keeps his gaze steady on Tooru’s eyes. Not his long, slender fingers caressing the counter, nor the flirtatious column of his perfumed throat peeking out of the collar of his shirt. He clears his throat and says, “Go upstairs. I’ll—“

“—go upstairs too,” Hanamaki pitches in. He is quick to drop his bag behind the counter and roll his imaginary long-sleeves. “I can cover twenty minutes for you.”

Hajime opens his mouth to refuse but makes a fatal mistake of dropping his gaze to Tooru’s lower lip just as his teeth have sunk into it. Yearning scratches at his throat, rendering it dry.

He clasps Hanamaki’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll be back in fifteen.”

Tooru winks at both Hanamaki and Matsukawa. “I’ll catch up with you guys when your boss isn’t glaring at me.”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa crack a knowing smirk and Hajime goes for the stairs before he can be on the receiving end of it. Tooru’s feet, in their horrible boots, are padding softly behind him. They enter Hajime’s humble apartment and as soon as the doors close behind him, he turns around, meeting Tooru’s expectant gaze.

In here, there is more light in Tooru’s eyes than there is coming in through the window. Hajime slides his hands under the straps of Tooru’s backpack and drops it carefully, as heavy as it is, on the floor. Then, his hands slide down to Tooru’s slender hips and he presses him gently into the doors. There is no teasing with ‘did you miss me?’, because by now it’s a given that Hajime misses him. And when Tooru’s lips fall open, inviting, Hajime knows Tooru has missed him just as much.

Hajime kisses him like he hasn’t in a month, breathing the time lost between them in his mouth.

“Hi, Iwa-chan,” Tooru says, a little out of breath, lips wet around the words.

“Hey.” Hajime ruffles Tooru’s perfectly styled hair, mussing it just enough to make sure he is real. The back of his head is where Hajime used to toss volleyball balls at him when he didn’t know what to do with his feelings for him. “How long are you staying?”

“Three days.”

Hajime’s chest feels tight, overwhelmed.

“You should get back to work. Hanamaki may ask to be paid for these fifteen minutes.”

“I’ve paid him in extra time with Matsukawa.”

“We really ought to do something about that.”

“They can do it themselves.” Hajime lets go of Tooru otherwise he’ll have time going downstairs with a clear head. “I’ll see you in the evening.”

“You know where to find me.”

 

 

Hajime closes the café earlier than usual and sends Yahaba Shigeru, a barista who works alongside Hajime in the afternoon shift, home. Midway up the stairs, he meets Matsukawa who has spent the afternoon catching up with Tooru yet looks as refreshed as he had this morning.

“What happened?” Hajime asks when he notices that Matsukawa is protectively holding his bandaged fingers.

“I touched something.”

“You know better.”

“I do. But it looked fluffy.”

In all likeliness, whatever it is that Matsukawa touched, it looked edible above anything else.

“So does Oikawa.”

Matsukawa gifts him one of his sly grins and clasps his shoulder. “You would know that better than anyone.”

“Good night, Issei.”

“’Night boss.”

It has been a long day of chasing the image of Tooru waiting upstairs while keeping his business face on so Hajime walks on tired feet to the room at the end of the hallway.  He presses the doorknob and enters without making a sound. Tooru is sitting in the middle of a dimly-lit room surrounded by glowing objects, most of which come to life only under his fingertips. He turns to him as if he knows Hajime in silence, in darkness, always.

Hajime pushes his sleeves up, a nervous habit if he’s ever had any, and carefully navigates the maze of items only to sit next to Tooru. Their knees touch and Hajime’s heart thrums.

“What did you find?”

“A lot, as it befits the world’s finest collector and wanderer.”

“Drop it, Oikawa,” Hajime warns. Tooru gives him a soft, sheepish smile.

“I had to sell most of them,” Tooru says and his hand curls into a fist on his knees. He’s no longer wearing those hideous, unlaced boots, so his glowing, alien socks are bright on display. Hajime’s learned to consider this an improvement. “The worst part of this is finding something you want to keep, but you can’t because it’s not meant for you.”

Hajime swallows, his throat dry. “You should be used to it by now.”

“I know. I am. Most of the time.”

Tooru’s lip gives a small, treacherous twitch and Hajime is struck with the urge to put this mood to rest. He leans in and his lips come to kiss Tooru’s neck, right behind his ear and just above the difficult blood coursing through his veins.

“Come to bed,” Hajime’s voice lowers just enough to tickle Tooru’s skin the right way.

Tooru grins, wide and mischievous. “You work fast, Iwa-chan.”

 _You disappear faster_ , Hajime thinks but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he scoops Tooru in his arms and wears him out all night long.

 

 

Hajime wakes up at the first crack of dawn. Sunlight fights its way through the blinds and touches Tooru’s pale skin here and there, above bite marks and below finger marks. He lies on his stomach next to Hajime, sheet draped lazily over his bare bottom and thighs. Every now and then his mouth lets out a random string of words as if he’s making conversation with somebody important in his dreams.

This is how Hajime spends the next three days. He kisses Tooru between shifts. He listens to stories about purple deserts and seas you can breathe in. He trails his fingers down the expanse of Tooru’s back in those early morning hours when Tooru’s asleep and Hajime can appreciate him without feeling self-conscious about it.  He watches Tooru sit beside Hanamaki and talk to Matsukawa like that seat wasn’t empty for a single day he was gone.

And once three days have passed, his blood pulls him elsewhere, where Hajime can’t follow. He doesn’t tie his shoelaces before he walks out the door with a smile, with a wave, with an empty backpack.

 

* * *

**Mid-June**

Hanamaki bundles the short sleeves of his shirt around his shoulders while chewing on the straw of his iced-tea. Matsukawa watches him out of the corner of his eye and only makes a comment when Hanamaki catches him doing so.

“Oikawa is coming back today,” Matsukawa says. “He’ll disown you as a friend if he catches you doing that.”

“I hope he does. I hope he chews me out for doing this to my shirt. I miss him.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. Hanamaki’s short-trimmed hair remains impeccable above his sweaty brow even as he sits underneath the air-conditioning. Perhaps he’s lost it; perhaps Oikawa’s constant absence is that loss.

“It’s been five years since he’s started wandering and I’m still not used to him being gone all the time. Sometimes I turn to my left to make a comment but he’s not there.”

“I’m officially worried,” Matsukawa says and presses his palm to Hanamaki’s forehead. His hand lingers longer than necessary but Hanamaki doesn’t seem to mind. He watches Matsukawa’s wrist as if it has something to tell him.

“Comfort me, Mattsun.”

Matsukawa pours him another glass of iced-tea. “On the house.”

“Off your pay check,” Hajime corrects.

As he gulps down his second iced-tea, Hanamaki gives Matsukawa such a look over the rim of his glass that Matsukawa brushes Hajime’s silly warning off without much concern.

The thing about Oikawa Tooru’s absence is that the four of them have known all along that they would go their separate ways. Their last year of high-school, marked by stressful exams on which their futures rested and losses in every volleyball game that mattered, ended with goodbyes that promised an uncertain reunion. Yet here they are; Hanamaki’s changed his majors twice, Matsukawa didn’t want to take over family business, and Hajime did just that after being unable to find a job in his profession. Tooru is the only chapter in their stories that they shared; Tooru’s captaincy, Tooru’s uncertainties and ambitions, Tooru’s ability to not trip when being chased by something bigger.  

“I’m taking him out for ice-cream. Maybe if we stuff him well, he won’t be able to leave again,” Hanamaki says. He sounds adamant to do it but Hajime knows better.

“We can use that time to clean up that storage room of his,” Matsukawa adds. His fingers have healed weeks ago.

“I don’t want to die,” Hajime says. What he really wanted to say is: “Since when is _my_ storage room _his_ storage room?”

The room upstairs, now filled with mundane-looking items whose real names Hajime can’t pronounce, used to be where Hajime’s parents kept stock, old furniture and clothes and coffee beans. Before Hajime could prevent it, Tooru has claimed the tiny room as his own.

Tooru sells most items he recovers to their owners, or collectors who asked for them, but other items he keeps; items that don’t have a place to call their home. The fond looks Tooru regards them with leave Hajime both envious and aching.

In a way, he concludes with a frown he shouldn’t sport in his workplace, that _his_ storage room has truly become _Tooru’s_ storage room.

 

 

“What are you doing?” Hanamaki asks, dryly. Tooru’s palms are resting firmly on top of his and Matsukawa’s heads, fingers treading in their hair.

“I’m transmitting you some common sense and insight.” Tooru says and closes his eyes as if to focus.

“Thanks, Tooru.” Matsukawa speaks around a bite of his sandwich.

“No wonder you don’t have any if you _oh-so_ -generously give it away,” Hanamaki says.

Tooru opens his eyes and pouts indignantly, “This is why I don’t miss you two at all.”

Standing between Hanamaki and Matsukawa, Tooru looks just right in his bright shorts and his bright eyes and his old, unlaced boots.

He’s only stayed for one day this time and Hajime tries not to let it show.

Tooru’s once said, sweat-clad and pleasantly unfolded over Hajime’s chest, that he sometimes considers leaving for another one of his journeys in the middle of the night. “It would be easier, for both of us,” he said. Hajime pondered over his words for a while, nuzzled his nose in Tooru’s hair to borrow time, and the more he thought about it, the better Tooru’s suggestion sat with him.

“You think so?” was all he said after much pondering.

“Yes,” Tooru punctuated the word with a kiss to Hajime’s chin. “But I don’t want this to be easy. Ever.”

Upon realization that what Tooru saying was selfishly childish, yet bashfully honest, Hajime’s lip curled into a smile and he brushed Tooru’s messy fringe out of his face to get a better look at his milk-chocolate eyes and playful eyelashes. He’s the fondest of Tooru when he’s pleasantly languid like this. Especially if he knows he’s the one who made him that way.

“Your very essence is being difficult, so I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

Tooru poked him in the cheek. “I thought we were past this juvenile meanness.”

“With you? Never.”

Tooru bit his lip and lowered his head back on Hajime’s chest, as if trying to hide his face. “Promise me.” He lifted his pinkie finger.

Hajime caught it with his own. “I promise.”

 

* * *

**Late-July**

“You really like it, don’t you Iwa-chan?”

“Mhm.” Hajime hums around the metallic bead attached to Tooru’s bellybutton. Hajime’s been attracted to Tooru before he’s learned how to spell the word but he never found a part of him so infuriatingly tempting. The silver piercing looks out of place against Tooru’s milky skin but what gets Hajime going the most, and he locks this thought in the dusty corner of his mind, is the monopoly he has over the knowledge of its existence.

He bites into skin around Tooru’s bellybutton, just to have him arch off the bed a little.

“Why’d you get it?”

Tooru’s reply comes in pleasant whimper as he stretches himself, legs long on either side of Hajime. He replies, “Needed it to obtain an item. It wards off troublesome creatures.”

“And a piercing was the only option?”

“No. I merely made the most daring choice.”

“Daring,” Hajime mocks Tooru’s tone. “Can’t say I’m not grateful, though.”

“Kinky, Iwa-chan. If I had known, I would’ve done it sooner.”

“You knew.” And he can tell by the way Tooru grins, like he did when he was fifteen and knew more secrets than their tiny world could hold, and presses his fingers to his mouth to hide the grin, that he is right.

That night, Hajime dreams of Tooru’s mother. She is sitting at the table and watching him and Tooru eat dinner after a day spent making castles in sand and catching dirt with their faces. Her features are sharp and beautiful, her lips smiling despite the loneliness that is etched deeply into the elegant set of her shoulders. She ruffles Tooru’s hair over the table and fearlessly looks at him like he’s the sun. Her eyes spill tears, but her smile is untouched. Then, she looks at Hajime, just as fondly, and mouths something he doesn’t catch.

Hajime wakes up sweaty, his heart racing to the sound of cicadas spilling inside through the open window. His throat begs for a glass of water but Tooru is clinging to him, blissfully asleep, and unconcerned by heat that clings to their skin. Trapped, Hajime stares at the ceiling and lets his thoughts wander back to vivid memories he saw in his dream.

When he was a kid, Hajime’s had a silly crush on Tooru’s mother. That was a crush he could understand. She was beautiful, long, brown hair that fell in waves over her slender hips, and a tender smile that protected and assured at all times. She would sit them both in her lap and tell them stories; stories that Hajime never found in written form, as if they couldn’t be contained within a page.

Eventually, Hajime learned that those stories belonged to Tooru’s father. He’s known Tooru since he first became aware of himself, but he’s rarely seen his father. Tooru’s father would come home, ugly boots unlaced and a heavy backpack on his back, and kiss his wife’s temple (Hajime felt jealous of this only once). He would hug Tooru with every word of apology known to man.

Hajime, with a dull ache in heart he once saw in Tooru’s mother but didn’t know how to name, kisses Tooru’s temple and wishes he could stay.

 

* * *

**Late-August**

“Blatant disrespect for our tradition,” Tooru murmurs around a candied apple. His lips are sweet and red and they’re way out in the public for Hajime to be thinking about this.

“If you brought us glowing yukata, we would’ve worn it too,” Matsukawa says and tugs at Tooru’s black yukata with cyan butterflies-and-flowers pattern that emits a neon glow and draws attention of every passerby.

“This one is one-of-a-kind, and coincidentally, so am I.”

Hanamaki snickers. “Did you mean, _luckily_.”

Hajime is far too sleepy for their antics so he focuses on the distant glow of city lights across the riverbank. Doing double shifts has taken a toll on his body and lately he’s been toying with the idea of making Matsukawa the chief of the morning shift and employing one more person to work with him. A part of him feels like this equals to admitting defeat.

The four of them stop walking and find a bench that overlooks the riverbank where, in a couple of minutes, fireworks will start. Hanamaki and Matsukawa sprawl on the grass, relaxed and taking too much space once more people begin to join them.

Tooru sits on the bench by Hajime and fidgets with his fingers.

“What is it?” Hajime asks, loud enough to be heard over the influx of voices.

“Nothing.” Tooru shakes his head and his fringe coyly covers his eyes. “I’m just glad I could be here for the fireworks.”

Hajime feels a single, painful beat of his heart and curses that there are so many people around them. He curses again, this time audibly, and sneaks his hand under the cover of Tooru’s sleeve, all the way to his palm. He holds his hand there and, like this, they watch colours explode against the black sky.

Most of them, Hajime sees reflected in Tooru’s eyes.

 

 

“Hajime, you love him, don’t you?”

This memory is less than a decade old. Tooru is upstairs, only fifteen, and Hajime is sitting across the table from Tooru’s mother. Hajime’s palms are sweaty and his tongue is nervous around the confession, yet he can’t bring himself to lie.

“Yes.”

That single syllable sets him free, more so when Tooru’s mother smiles, as if hearing it brings her comfort.

“He’s going to be just like his father.”  

That is a different kind of ‘yes’, an inevitable, heart-wrenching one. Hajime, at that point, saw Tooru’s father like a creature that wasn’t quite of this world. He couldn’t understand how Tooru’s father loved him and his mother yet he left them alone only to come back with bag of items that were as magical as unreal.

Most of all, Hajime didn’t understand the amount of loneliness Tooru’s mother endured. Looking at her in his memory, he wishes he could hold her and tell her she did everything right until she couldn’t anymore.

Instead, the memory unfolds by itself and Tooru’s mother clasps Hajime’s hands over the table, her grip insistent.

“Boys like them don’t belong to us. They belong to the world, and the world belongs to them.”

“What are we then?” Hajime inquires. He can’t tell if he’s asked it before or if he’s taken control of the memory, shaping it as he pleases.

Tooru’s mother smiles and Hajime knows it’s for real. She says, “A place where they belong.”

 

* * *

**Early-September**

Facing Matsukawa and Hanamaki as opponents used to be terrifying in practice and facing them on Hajime’s makeshift, backyard volleyball court sends a different kind of thrill down Hajime’s spine. Even divided in pairs of two, their individual strength forces the air to move in an antagonistic way. It’s always a serious affair when the four of them are competing for single victory.

Tooru serves first, for old times sake, and Hanamaki doesn’t even have time to _think_ about receiving, let alone dive in to actually do it. The ball flawlessly scores a point. Hajime looks at Tooru, that royal machine of taut muscles and sinews, and finds that he hasn’t grown rusty at all. His body knows the tactics and the feel of the ball on the palm of his hand and his eyes light up as if there’s an old itch in him that he’s dying to scratch. No regrets for dreams discarded.  

Matsukawa and Hanamaki meet Hajime’s eyes and grin. Hajime returns the grin in earnest and they spend the Sunday playing.

 

 

Tooru sits at the foot of the bed, his dirty shirt discarded after a long shower. Hajime gently rubs his scalp with a towel, drying the brown locks of his damp hair. His neck smells of lavender and summer and Hajime prepares for the following weeks when Tooru will be gone but his smell will linger and wrap around Hajime like a cocoon.

“I love it when you spoil me,” Tooru says. “It’s so rare I appreciate it twice as much.”

“I’ve been spoiling you our entire lives.” Hajime thinks of all those balls he’s thrown at the back of Tooru’s head; he thinks of hands crumpled in each other’s shirts.

“I didn’t notice. You must’ve been bad at it.”

Hajime presses his fingers hard into his scalp.

“Ow, _ow_ , Iwa- _chan_!”

Once he’s done toweling him, Tooru pushes himself up and turns around, wrapping his arms around his neck. Like this, Tooru’s taunting piercing is at mouth’s reach. Hajime leans in and kisses it. Tooru laughs, because his tummy is sensitive and Hajime knows that tenderness tickles him the most. For this reason, Hajime kisses him again and again.

The surface of the glistening piercing reflects the bedside lamp and Hajime’s mind is flooded with images that smell of a September gone. Hajime sees Tooru’s father gifting his wife a silver earring that compliments the soft curve of her jaw. He kisses her ear gently and whispers something that has her covering her mouth to hide a smile. Tooru rolls his eyes and says “guys please”, because he’s seventeen and he doesn’t know that this is the last time he’ll see them together.

 

* * *

 

**Late-October**

“This is his _third_ coffee,” Hajime says, hands on his hips, once he’s back from serving the noon rush. He turns to Matsukawa whose expression is blank, yet entirely guilty. “Stop refilling him.”

“I can’t help it when he gives me that _look_ ,” Matsukawa justifies and begins pouring more coffee in Hanamaki’s cup.

Hanamaki tears his gaze from a thick, menacing textbook and looks at Hajime as if to prove a point. There are bags under his bored, light eyes and his lips are dry and lazily lopsided.

Hajime rolls his eyes.

“That’s the same look he always has!”

Matsukawa shrugs and Hanamaki returns to his textbook, but not before Hajime catches him smile.

When Hanamaki is gone for classes, Matsukawa pokes Hajime’s ribs with his elbow. He says, “You should be nice to him. He has blackmail material on you.”

“What?” Hajime is elbow-deep in washing cups so he can’t afford to move much.

Matsukawa pulls out his phone and opens an image of Hajime looking mildly uncomfortable while explaining why coffee is not good to a couple of neighborhood elementary schoolers. He remembers that day vividly. He had been warned by their mothers that they will come so he prepared a convincing speech and ended up serving them juice instead.

“He wanted to send it to Oikawa, but, you know.”

“Delete it.”

Matsukawa closes his phone and puts it back in his back pocket.

When Hajime asked Tooru why he didn’t carry a phone with him, Tooru said something about “interfering frequencies” and they never spoke of it again. Sometimes, Hajime wonders if that was an excuse, just another ploy to keep making this difficult, and keeping it that way. Other times, he sees himself reflected in Tooru’s glassy eyes and understands that Tooru wouldn’t lie.

 

 

“I’m a few days late because I was looking for _this_ ,” Tooru announces and gives Hanamaki a small, messily-wrapped package.

Matsukawa and Hajime, their eyebrows raised, observe Tooru’s excited bounce as Hanamaki unwraps the gift. It’s a black sleep mask with red eyes that looks menacing and, curiously, animated.

“It’ll help you with studies, trust me,” Tooru explains. “But don’t wear it during the day, ever.”

“You didn’t have to.” Hanamaki tucks the mask in his bag with care. “Thank you.”

Tooru grins. “You’re my least favorite, after all. You’re welcome.”

“What about me?” Matsukawa sounds a lot like Tooru when he feels left out.

Tooru saunters over to his side and drapes an arm around his shoulder. Hajime leans in when Tooru does the same, about to whisper.

“What you want can’t be found in places I visit, Mattsun.”

Matsukawa hums in acknowledgement, the sound low and rough in his throat, and his gaze falls on the bored curve of Hanamaki’s lips.

Hanamaki notices.

 

 

Kissing Tooru with November looming over their heads feels like handling glass on the verge of breaking. Years pass and they never directly address it but Hajime feels it in the way Tooru whimpers into his mouth, lips moving with urgency of someone who fears losing.

Hajime’s heart grows warm and too heavy to be carried and what keeps him grounded in present is the cold sting of Tooru’s piercing against his stomach.

Later, with Tooru’s distracting lips pressed into the tip of his spine, Hajime says, “You don’t have to buy your way back, there’s always a place for you here. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that, Iwa-chan.”

“Alright, good.”

At the base of the bed are Tooru’s boots. Hajime regards them with contempt, the thought of throwing them out with the trash crossing his mind for the hundredth time. Instead, he reaches for them, his back muscles straining under Tooru’s weight, and neatly ties their laces; those mischievous bastards come apart immediately.

“You never give up, do you.” Tooru’s voice is a coherent laugh.

“I don’t understand why you still wear them,” Hajime murmurs, gruffness coloring his voice. “You’ll trip one day, you know.”

“My father wore them, and my grandfather before him, and they never tripped,” Tooru says, voice brushing over Hajime’s skin. “As long as I don’t waver, they’ll take me anywhere.”

“Right. I mean, Oikawa Tooru, _wavering_?”

Tooru’s hands wrap around Hajime’s torso, as if to keep him in place. He whispers, “Preposterous, I know.”

 

* * *

 

**November 16 th  **

Hajime doesn’t expect him, not this month, and definitely not today. Yet, there he is, Oikawa Tooru, entering Hajime’s café on crutches, his left knee held in air. He spots Hajime, whose mouth hangs open and attracts attention of those who aren’t used to seeing him caught off-guard. He flashes a grin that would be ridiculous if it not so apologetic.

“No, ‘ _I told you so_ ’?” Tooru says once he reaches the counter.

Hajime bites his lip. The sting keeps him from crying.


	2. Side B: Oikawa Tooru

**Home**

Tooru returns to the bedroom and finds Iwa-chan looking out the window. He blinks once and sees his mother in the same position, her image withered. He blinks again and it’s Iwa-chan now staring at him from the windowsill, eyebrows drawn in a frown.

“You should be resting.”

“I went to the toilet, Iwa-chan.”

Tooru gently sits down on Hajime’s unmade bed and gets lost in the sheets that smell of sweat from the previous night. His knee hasn’t been permanently damaged, but he is to give it a nice, long rest. The first few days, when the pain was unbearable, he drank painkillers. Now he doesn’t need them as much but he still feels the tenderness of flesh and how it screams at the slightest hint of exertion. He doesn’t complain of the pain, half because of Hajime and half because of himself. Hajime didn’t bring up the reason Tooru’s tripped even though he knows that only the faltering of the mind could’ve caused his boots to turn on him.

He shakes the thoughts away before anxiety settles in his shoulders and pulls him even lower.

“It was very strategic of you to put Makki and Mattsun together in a shift,” Tooru says and smiles against the sheets. Makki needed a part-time job so Hajime’s re-ordered the shifts a bit; now he takes the morning shift with Yahaba so Mattsun can take the afternoon shift with Makki. Tooru’s been wondering when that would happen.

“It was out of necessity,” Hajime crosses his arms as a statement. Then, with fondness he can’t conceal, he adds: “I can’t seem to get rid of you three no matter how hard I try.”

“You aren’t trying at all, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime looks out the window again, briefly as if he’s caught a glimpse of something that has already disappeared, and then his eyes are back on Tooru.

Tooru props himself up on his elbows and says, “Maybe I should start doing those simple exercises for strengthening my knee?”

Hajime’s shoulders drop. “Isn’t it too soon?”

“The pain has almost subsided. Doctor said I could start doing them after a week.”

“Alright.” Hajime gets up and comes over. His knee makes a dent in the mattress. He offers a helping hand through heel slides and leg raises, and brings ice afterwards. He applies it to Tooru’s knee, his eyes looking for the minutest change of Tooru’s expression, and Tooru tries so hard to remain perfectly still that he ends up looking away.

Through the window, Tooru sees the moon and imagines ripping it open. He probably could, if he ever got to the moon. It’s been a week since he’s stepped a foot outside and his toes curl at the idea of slipping back in to his boots and going wherever they take him.

“Do you miss it?” Hajime’s question pierces through the silence.

Tooru turns to him and sees the dark depth of his concerned eyes, the stubborn frown of his forehead and his fierce lips pulled down with worry. He raises his palms to Hajime’s biceps and gives them a reassuring squeeze; this is where Hajime holds him and where he feels the safest.

“Miss _what_?”

 

 

“I feel loved.” Tooru presses his palm to his chest as he ogles the plethora of candy in front of him. Hanamaki sits across from him, liberally taking time off from his shift to entertain Tooru while Hajime is out on errands.

“We’re just trying to fatten you up so you can’t leave,” Hanamaki deadpans, though his eyebrow raises playfully.

Tooru puts a piece of pink candy in his mouth. “I’ll just walk it off, my dear Makki.”

Hanamaki glances at Matsukawa. To check if it’s still okay to slack off, or just to _check_ on him. Tooru pops another candy in his mouth and welcomes the sweetness that spreads through his mouth.

“You need to get your best crush in order,” he comments despite himself. He promised he wouldn’t intervene but it’s hard sometimes; sometimes people need an intervention.

“Best _friend_. And it’s all in order.”

“After seeing your room that one time in high school, I’m starting to doubt your definition of _order_.”

Hanamaki steals a piece of candy from Tooru and puts it in his mouth before Tooru can protest. Tooru rolls his eyes at his petulance. Hanamaki bites into the hard candy as if he has something to prove and then works the words out around it, “You’re lucky I don’t exact revenge on people with crutches.”

“You’re lucky I’m not particularly conniving when I know I can’t run away fast.”

“That’s fair.”

 

 

Second week in, the four of them end up on the floor of Hajime’s bedroom, slightly tipsy and with photographs of their high school days scattered on the floor. Tooru’s been moving around more lately, and he’s doubled his exercises. Even so, Hajime, ever the worry-wart, brings the party over to him to make sure he doesn’t over-exert himself.

“Oikawa, you are in _every_ photo. How do you even—“ Hanamaki says while he holds a dozen of photos. His words are slightly slurred and his eyes are droopy but he’s acutely aware of Matsukawa pressing himself to his side.Tooru finds it funny.

“That thing on his head is an antenna that reacts to the sound of a camera shutter. Obviously,” Matsukawa offers.

“Obviously,” Hanamaki confirms.

Hajime laughs, a boisterous, beautiful laugh. He seems to find everything ridiculous once he has a drink or five.

“I’ll have you know that the camera wants me,” Oikawa explains. Though, he himself isn’t sure how he always ends up in every single photo. Here is his hair, there his elbow, and elsewhere even his butt. He’s somehow always there. “I’m omnipresent.”

Hanamaki snorts. “You _used_ to be omnipresent.”

The light, tipsy atmosphere fizzles out. Tooru catches sight of Hajime’s fingers tugging at the carpet, and then of Matsukawa lowering his gaze to Hanamaki’s lap.This is the part where Tooru hates his boots.

“But that’s okay. You’re still here,” Hanamaki says and nudges Matsukawa’s messy head with his shoulder. He grins and Matsukawa does the same.

“True, I personally appreciate you more when I don’t have to see you every day.”

“Aw, you guys.”

Hajime reacts at once. “Why are you taking _that_ as a compliment?”

Tooru laughs and they′re back to pointless chatting and half-slurred jokes of times that feel as though they belong to a different century. Back then, they had dreams that are nothing like their present reality. They all knew what they wanted and where they wanted it; they all got lost and found new paths.

Even so, there’s still a place for him, right here, where he can sit by Hajime and exchange camaraderie with Hanamaki and Matsukawa. But he feels like he’s swindling them; Tooru’s blood takes him places where they can never go, and often does he want to rip his skin open and take this part of himself out. He never wanted this from his father; never wanted this for Hajime.

Tooru tries not to be selfish, so he doesn’t voice his apologies, but if his days of wandering have taught him anything, it’s that every time he looks at Hajime, it’s like he sees him for the first time; smouldering eyes and arms bound to protect. It’s the one thing that keeps him going and the one thing that makes him want to stop going altogether, whatever end that brings him. His throat goes dry, full of words he cannot say, and he lays his head in Hajime’s lap. He falls asleep with Hajime’s fingers wound gently in his hair.

 

 

Three days from then, Matsukawa walks into the café wearing ORAL CIGARETTES t-shirt that Tooru distinctly remembers hanging off Hanamaki’s slim shoulders more than once.

Outside, Hanamaki is tying a leash attached to a large, perky black dog. Tooru raises his eyebrow at Matsukawa, who looks as though he could’ve done with a few more hours of sleep.

“What’s that?”

“Remember that phantom dog that allegedly chased Hanamaki almost every day? Turns out it’s a very real, very attention-loving stray that needs owners and a roof above its head. We decided to adopt it.”

“’ _We’_?” Tooru practically coos.

“Not a word,” Matsukawa says as he walks past Tooru’s seat and makes a mess of his perfect locks.

“Ah, _touché_.”

 

 

After three weeks, voice of the distance grows from an echo behind faraway buildings to a pesky growl at Tooru’s feet. His leg bounces nervously under the table. The hurt knee has almost completely healed but he keeps stretching his time under the familiar roof. He spots Hajime by the counter, working through the morning shift, and Hajime notices his bouncy leg, the eager tap of fingers on the café table.

Then, Hajime looks away. Tooru doesn’t.

 

 

“Can’t sleep again?” Hajime’s voice, slightly hoarse and colored by sex they’ve had ten minute ago, calls from the bed. Tooru looks at him from where’s he’s seated by the window and his breath catches in his throat; Hajime’s sweat-slick body is dyed in pale moonlight, breathtaking.

Tooru tries, “I’m a little—“

“On edge?”

Tooru bites his lip. He hates the word, especially in this context. _Especially_ when Hajime is right. He’s tried to conceal the wishful gazes out the window as much as he’s tried to conceal pent-up longing whenever he kisses Hajime. It never quite works.

“Do you hate him?” Hajime interrupts Tooru’s train of thoughts.

Tooru huffs a weak breath of defeat, pushes a smile through while he’s at it. “We all inherit _something_ our parents. You got your dad’s café and I got—“

“Restless feet?”

Tooru scrunches his nose. “Wanderlust. And a proclivity for magic.” He puffs at his fringe which has stuck on his damp forehead. “But I guess restless feet works too.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Tooru looks out the window again. Hajime’s gaze is on his face, Tooru feels it like a prickle at the back of his neck. “I don’t hate my father.”

He hears the bed creak and a breath later, Hajime’s hands wrap around his hips. He melts in them, soft like putty, and ready to be molded into anything Hajime needs him to be when they’re like this.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“I could just throw these out.”

Hajime’s chin points at Tooru’s boots that are lying lonely and unworn by the bed.

“You know you can’t, Iwa-chan.”

“But you fell because of them.”

“This isn’t about my boots, Iwa-chan.”

Tooru shifts so he’s facing Hajime and cradles Hajime’s cheeks in his hands. His cheeks are flushed and warmer each time Tooru runs the pads of his fingers over them.

“I’m scared,” comes Hajime’s voice in an insecure whisper.

It’s an odd arrangement of words to come out of Iwa-chan’s mouth.

“Of what?”

“That you won’t come back someday.”

“That’s funny.”

“How so?”

“I’m scared you won’t open the doors for me someday.”

Hajime laughs, weakly.

“We’re pathetic.”

“Speak for yourself, Iwa-chan.” Hajime pinches his belly. “ _Ow_.”

“I chose you.” Hajime says, boring into Tooru’s eyes, gaze so intense that Tooru can’t imagine looking away, ever. “I chose your teasing mouth, your difficult ways, your unlaced boots, your presence _and_ your absence. I’m not taking you back.”

“I love you too.”

 

 

* * *

**Not Home**

Tooru pulls out a red cell phone out of a tiny, secret pocket that has been manually sewn on the inside of his coat. The moment he flips the phone on, he’s startled by an overwhelming amount of messages and missed calls, all from the same number. He dials the number and prepares for the worst.

“Oikawa. Do you have any idea how worried I was?” The voice on the other end of the line is calm, which cuts into Tooru’s skin and leaves guilt in its wake.

“Hi, Ushiwaka,” Tooru greets cheerfully. He’s little ways from Tokyo, on foot, and his mood has been improving the more distance he covered even if he is still heavy where Hajime kissed his forehead two times, for luck.

“You could’ve sent a message that you were recovering well.”

Tooru looks down at his boots. There’s mud caught on the shoelaces. He can’t be bothered.

“I figured you’d know I was.”

“Right.” There’s a sigh before Ushijima Wakatoshi, a trusty but stern companion, continues speaking. “You’re lagging behind with work.”

“I know.”

“Finish requests that are the oldest. You’ve kept people waiting long enough.”

“Those don’t look fun.”

“Oikawa. I am your navigator for a reason.”

Tooru pouts though he knows Ushijima can’t see him. “ _Fine_. I’ll do it, but I won’t be happy about it.”

“Are you ever.” It isn’t a question.

“Occasionally,” Tooru replies defiantly.

They both fall silent and for a while, Tooru walks with his phone pressed to his ear.

“How is Iwaizumi?”

“You’ve never even met him, why do you care?”

“Because you care.”

“He’s fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“It’s good to have you back, Oikawa.”

A pause. “You too.”

 

 

Tooru’s father never stuck long enough to explain how Tooru’s life is supposed to work after high school, when he first felt what he’s become. He’s only left a long, neat letter written on a clean napkin, as if his son is merely an afterthought next to a cup of coffee. Tooru’s read the letter so many times, he knows it by heart:

_First, you will meet your navigator. Oikawa’s have always been working with Ushijima’s. They are rational where we tend to get a bit emotional. You will probably not get along with your Ushijima too well, but you’ll get used to him. You’ll trust him. Trust him._

_Second, you will always feel where the spot is. Cut it and you’re in. You can stay long enough to admire the scenery. It’s breathtaking, I know, even though it’s practically the same thing we see outside. Don’t stay too long._

_Third, always return the item to those it belongs to. If it doesn’t belong to anyone, it belongs to you. Take good care of it._

_Fourth, don’t ever ask yourself if it’s worth the time traded. It will be a lot of time when you’re forty but then you will have lived long enough. That’s what I tell myself. Sometimes it works._

_Fifth, I love you._

_Sixth, I am sorry._

 

Tooru received his father’s boots after his death, hand-delivered by Ushijima. He didn’t question much of his father’s words until later.

 

 

Tooru finds it in the back alley of a restaurant. This part is always easy; it’s like his body is a compass and all the world is his destination. There are a few potted flowers scattered in front of a brick wall and Tooru pushes them aside to approach the wall. Tooru rests his palm on the rough surface and trails his palm around until he feels the right spot. Then he presses it.

The wall unfolds on itself and opens a straight path toward. The path is much the same as the one he’s walked on moments ago. Except there are no people. Colors explode around him, pastel purples and reds and occasional pinks. They twirl around him in a hypnotizing dance but Tooru resists their charms. He walks down the street. Streetlights flicker incessantly. Cracks form in the pavement, like being walked on offends it, but his trusty boots keep him firmly above ground. Tooru follows the road and enjoys the quiet while he can.

He stops in front of a shrine tucked under the base of a cherry tree in a park. A tiny, dingy shrine has no offerings and Tooru surmises that this shrine no longer exists on the other side. He crouches and listens carefully until he hears a faint rustle of leaves.

This part is always hard. Thin, but strong vines wrap around his wrists and attempt to pull him away from the shrine. He resists and under the pressure, the vines snap, their screams but a whisper of wind ruffling his hair.

“I’ll only take what I came here for,” Tooru says. The vines creep up his leg but he doesn’t put up a fight. He wipes the dust off the shrine and searches for a sign of a crevice, or anything that implies a hiding place, but comes up empty. He sighs, exasperated, and pulls out a pocket knife to prick his finger with. A little blood, white instead of red, trickles out and falls on the gray stone of the shrine. Nothing magical happens, but the sound of the wind gets louder, closer.

“Five months, isn’t that fair?”

A chunk of the shrine’s roof falls off and underneath it peers out a silver ring, untouched by time or enchantments of this place. Tooru’s skin feels coated with electricity, as it always does, and he reaches for the ring. He twirls it around his fingers, unimpressed; it feels light.

“One down.”

 

 

Tooru knocks on the doors, waits for ten seconds, and then knocks again. An old man lets him in without question. The apartment smells of potted flowers and tea. It’s a small place but it’s brimming with care; the kind of place Iwa-chan is sure to have when he turns sixty.

“I have recovered your item,” Tooru says once he accepts a cup of tea. He offers the ring on the palm of his hand. Being in this place is oddly suffocating and Tooru wants to leave.

The old man smiles sympathetically but doesn’t take the ring. “I’m grateful, but I’m afraid it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I know I’m three months late but—“

The old man lifts his hand and Tooru shuts his mouth. Then, he points at a small cupboard where a single picture of a lady with long, grey hair stands proud among many lit candles. Only now does Tooru notice a waft coming from them.

“I’m sorry.”

The smile doesn’t disappear from the old man’s face, making his wrinkles seem as though they’ve always been a welcome part of his face. “Inside the ring.”

Tooru, albeit confused, takes the ring and examines it. There, he finds a small inscription in bold: _Home_.

“She was a home to me. I wanted her to know.”

“You could’ve just told her.” Tooru clenches his fist around the ring, feels it dig into his skin.

There goes that smile again. Tooru feels something churn in his belly. He doesn’t know the name of that feeling.

“Do you have time for a story, wanderer?”

Tooru says, “Yes.”

 

 

* * *

**Used to be Home**

Three months of incessant wandering, many items found and returned, some kept, Tooru winds up in front of his old home. The house looks the same as it did when he’s felt the first pulse of his wild blood and had no choice but to follow it. His back tired of cheap mattresses and fast breakfasts, he rings the doorbell. Moments later, his sister opens the doors. Her eyes widen with surprise, and in the next second, they get glassy with tears.

“You lost the bet.” Tooru teases with his hands in his pockets.

“Damn it.” She wipes her tears on the sleeve of her blouse and pulls him in for a tight hug. She wears the same flowery perfume she wore when he last saw her.

“I’m sorry for not coming back. I had to,” Tooru pauses. She doesn’t let him go. Some of her curly, brown hair gets into his mouth as he speaks. They must look silly, hugging for so long on a doorstep. “I had to get used to it.”

She pulls back but keeps her hands clasped on his shoulders. “It’s alright. We’re cut from the same cloth, after all.”

“Not quite.” She doesn’t have all this restlessness and loneliness in her. And Tooru is thankful everyday that she doesn’t.

“Quite _enough_ , smartass.”

Tooru enters the house and much of it is still the same. Emptier of their mother, never full enough of their father, but the distant feeling of belonging lingers. Little ways from kitchen, a sound comes rushing down the stairs.

“Uncle Tooru!” The ‘o’ draws on endlessly and the voice of his nephew Takeru jumps with every stair his little legs land on or skip over.

Tooru leans down to catch him and twirl him around the room. Takeru should be around eleven years old but he feels so light. Maybe Tooru’s grown heavier.

He and his sister sit down for a cup of coffee. The chair he sits on is the one his father used to sit on when he came home.

“I assume you’re not here just to catch up,” his sister accuses, though she tries to hide her tiny smirk behind the rim of her cup.

“Sometimes I forget you’re just as annoyingly perceptive as I am.”

“See, more than _quite_ cut from the same cloth.”

Takeru looks at both of them as if he understands what they’re talking about.

“I came to pick up something. Remember that earring father gave our mother a little while before she left?”

“The silver one?”

“Yes. Did she take it with her?”

“Well, she only took a few things with her but I think her jewellery box is still here. Unless she wore it. What’s this about?”

They spoke calmly as if this is merely a light chat about the weather over breakfast. The thing is, the two of them have always been on their own, even when they weren’t. When their mother disappeared without a word, neither of them blamed her. When their father showed up two months later, and then died two weeks after that, neither of them felt any less alone then they did for their whole lives. In between different types of absences, they always had each other’s backs and that is what kept them strong.

“I want to put it to better use in case it’s only collecting dust.”

His sister grins. Her brown eyes are full of realization. “You still with Hajime?”

“He surprisingly hasn’t left me yet.”

“’ _Yet_ ’, says my tormented little brother. He will never leave you.” She says it with such certainty that Tooru can’t help but believe her.

“I wish he would. It would be easier for him.”

“He’s been best friends with _you_ for forever. He’s _used_ to having it difficult,” she points her cup at him to make a point. “Remember that one time he fell when you were seven and you cried and hugged him so hard you accidentally broke his finger. He _loves_ you.”

Tooru purses his lips but he recalls the memory with fondness. And a tinge of guilt. “That’s reassuring.”

“Isn’t it?”

Takeru tugs at Tooru’s sleeve, interrupting the flow of conversation. “How is Uncle Iwaizumi? When will he come to play?”

“He’s soon to be an incredibly lucky man. Then he’ll come to play.”

“Yes!” Takeru pumps his fists in the air. Tooru’s sister laughs but her eyes warn not to make promises he can’t fulfill. Tooru doesn’t intend to.

After drinking his coffee, Tooru helps with the dishes. He chats his sister up about Takeru’s sudden interest in volleyball and how he’s taking traits from the right Oikawa. She sees through all of it but doesn’t mention it until half past ten.

“You’re stalling. Go upstairs and check if the earring is there.”

“I know. I’m going,” Tooru mutters but he doesn’t move.

“Want me to come with you?”

“Yes.”

The room that once belonged to their parents belongs to them still. It’s left completely untouched, much of the furniture rotting away. It’s clear the moment Tooru inhales a cloud of dust that his sister doesn’t go into this room at all. She stays by his side as he delves deeper into the room, his destination the jewellery box. He holds his breath as he opens it.

When he finds the earring underneath unworn pearl necklaces, he exhales a shaky breath.

“So, you’re going to propose to him?” His sister asks.

“Yes.”

“Took you long enough.”

“I wanted us to be past childish crushes.”

“Right. I’m pretty sure you two skipped the ‘childish crush’ phase and went straight into ‘meant to be’.”

Tooru elbows her lightly because he still feels a bit immature when he stands next to her, even more so when she reads him so easily. He says, in rapid succession, “ _Fine_ , I was scared and didn’t want to tie him into a life of misery and loneliness.”

His sister ruffles his hair, proud. “Glad you got that off your chest.”

“Me too.”

Her face is suddenly devoid of playfulness.

“I mean it, Tooru. I never much believed in our parents. Maybe because I never saw their story. But I’ve seen yours and Hajime’s. And I believe in it.”

“Thank you, my dearest sappy sister.”

He kisses her cheek and she makes that tiny sound in her throat that she makes when she’s won a one-sided argument.

“A part of me is happy it’s ending for our family,” she says.

Tooru looks at the earring and remembers the way his mother looked when she wore it. “Me too.”

 

 

* * *

**Home**

Tooru returns with his bag empty and his chest full of yearning to see Hajime. It’s afternoon and the café  looks more crowded than it did all those times he returned in the mornings. First, he sees Hanamaki rolling his eyes at Matsukawa who is showing off his prowess at carrying six mugs without a tray.

When they see Tooru, they assemble next to each other and barely manage to suppress their grins.

“How may we help you, sir?” Hanamaki says, his tone clearly teasing.

“I would like a cup of coffee and a grumpy boss with a high forehead.”

“Sure, one coffee it is _but_ ,” Matsukawa puts his forefinger to his chin as if he’s deep in contemplation.

“But we’re not sure you can afford the boss,” Hanamaki finishes for him.

“Wow. I liked you two better when you sassed me separately. I’m not sure I support this union.”

They don’t dignify that with a reply, instead, Matsukawa pulls Tooru in a hug, right there in front of everyone, and Hanamaki follows shortly after.

“It’s good to see you,” Matsukawa says, his voice drowning somewhere in the Tooru’s hair.

“You too. You smell like Hanamaki, that’s adorable,” Tooru teases and gets pinched in his arm. He guesses it’s Hanamaki.

They separate and only then feel slightly conscious over public displays of affection. Tooru brushes it off with a shrug.

“He’s upstairs?”

“Yup.”

 

 

Tooru knows that Hajime can tell when he’s coming home. He’s never asked Hajime _how_ he knows it, and a huge part of him wants it to remain a secret, but he’s always been secretly curious about it. Perhaps it’s just a Hajime thing.

When Tooru pushes the doors of the bedroom open, Hajime is already looking at him from the bed where he’s sprawled. There’s a book sitting open next to him.

“Hi,” Hajime says, simply, in his Hajime-esque way that sounds a lot like ‘I missed you’. And because Tooru misses him too, he drops his bag, kicks his boots off and crawls humbly on all fours until he’s on Hajime. Then he gently lays his head on Hajime’s chest. He listens to Hajime’s heartbeat and closes his eyes against it.

“Hi, Iwa-chan,” he whispers. Hajime doesn’t speak, only runs his fingers tenderly through Tooru’s hair.

Tooru feels the weight of a single ring in the pocket of his coat. On his way over, which he’s made needlessly long for all his planning and over-thinking purposes, he’s coined an ideal setting and circumstances to propose to Hajime. But now that he’s here, he feels his pulse quicken with impatience and tension.

Oikawa Tooru, nervous in Hajime Iwaizumi’s presence. Now that’s something for the books.

He lifts himself off Hajime so fast that Hajime appears startled at the movement. He lays his palms on Tooru’s thighs as if to keep him in place. He doesn’t need to worry, Tooru tells him with his eyes, because he’s not going anywhere.

Tooru reaches in his pocket and pulls out the ring. Hajime’s expression goes from mild worry to bewilderment when his mind catches up to his eyes. The ring is the one with the inscription ‘ _Home_ ’ on the inner circle, but Tooru’s never had any intention of letting Hajime know about that until he notices it himself. What’s special and new about this ring is a tiny silver bead. Tooru can tell that Hajime recognizes that it once belonged to a certain earring.

Tooru clears his throat and hopes his heart will go back where it belongs. His palms are sweaty and he knows his voice will crack, but he offers the ring with determination and says:

“Iwa-chan— _Hajime_ , will you do me the honor and stay with me, against all odds, against time?”

Hajime bites his lip, and for a second, Tooru worries he might cry. Or reject him.

Then, Hajime lets Tooru slide the ring on his ring finger. He looks at it like it’s made of a lifetime worth of missing, all of it worth the wait.

“This is ridiculous,” Hajime mutters, eyes still glued on the ring.

“I know, right.”

“No, not that.”

Hajime reaches for the drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a small, black box. He opens it with care and turns it to Tooru.

It’s overwhelming, Tooru decides, how in sync they are.

“Oikawa Tooru,” Hajime says, voice colored nervous. “Will you do me the honor and keep coming back to me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Tooru’s reply is instant. He carefully slips the ring on his finger and opens his palm to look at it. It’s silver, simple, compliments his slender finger. “For as long as you want me to.”

Hajime pushes himself up, his hand still on Tooru’s thigh, shaking.

“Look at the ring.”

Tooru rolls the ring around his finger until his eyes fall on a word in cursive. The prettiest, most fragile word in the world:

_Forever._

“So cheesy,” Tooru says and kisses his ring finger with all the fondness he has for Iwaizumi Hajime.

That too is forever.


End file.
